A Break from Routine
by flashwitch
Summary: Everything was going fine. Coulson was back in control and back in charge. The team were getting on well. Fury hadn't lied in a whole hour. And then Clint had to go and get himself kidnapped. Drama in the OCD verse! Follows on from Magical Thinking.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a WiP. I will try and update at least once a week, but updates are likely to be sporadic (as anyone who read along with my Psych fics will know...)! Read the chapter notes, as I will be putting any additional warnings in there.**  
**Also, the F word is used a lot in here, as it is in all the OCD verse stories.**

* * *

Three missions. Three fucking missions and one whole week. That's how long Coulson had been back in the field as handler to the Avengers. Three missions, and Clint was chained hand and foot and sitting in a dog cage. Yeah, he was never going to live this down.

"Ah, Agent Barton. Or do you prefer 'Hawkeye'?"

"Fuck you."

When he'd woken up, chained and bound, he'd thought he was in the middle of a flashback. Then he'd noticed the cage and the lack of Phil, and panicked. It probably says something bad about your lifestyle if your first thought when you wake up chained hand and foot is that you're having a flashback to the last time you were kidnapped. Seriously, he needed to change his lifestyle. Maybe take up golf.

Not that the last time hadn't been fun. They'd had him chained by his wrists to the ceiling, his ankles to the floor, and they'd left him there alone. They still had no idea how he escaped, which always made Clint smile. The rumours that had flown around following that! It had done wonders for his reputation. In truth, Phil and Natasha had snuck in and unchained him, leaving no trace of their presence. Thinking about it, it was probably those rumours that had led to his current predicament.

Not the actual capture, but the way he was being contained. He was stripped to his boxer shorts (to ensure he had no lock picks or weapons) and he had heavy manacles around his wrist that were attached by a chain to each other, and to the equally heavy manacles around his ankles. And he was in a dog cage. A cramped, cold dog cage. As in a cage for dogs. Which, seriously, he was _never_ going to live that down. The cage itself was sitting on a concrete floor in the middle of a large open space. It felt to Clint like it was underground, so he was going with basement. There were four guards standing around his cage, one at each corner. And the bossman was standing in front of him. He was short yet well muscled, and he was wearing a very expensive suit. Actually, the boss had been monologue-ing the whole time Clint had been assessing his situation. Something about 'how dare Clint talk to him like that?' and 'didn't Clint know who he was?'

Maybe he should actually start listening. Not that it mattered what the guy said. Coulson was coming for him. He wouldn't be here long.

* * *

"You're purpose here is twofold. First, you function as bait. Secondly, and more importantly, you will tell us all you know. Starting with the access codes to Stark Tower."

Clint laughed.

"Access codes? That's what this is about? You get that they change those codes whenever one of us gets caught?"

"None of them have realised you're missing yet. In fact, they probably won't notice at all."

"What?" That's not true, that can't be true.

"We're keeping them nicely distracted. And one of my men is skilled at deception. He gave a message to your handler that you were injured, and would be taken to a hospital." He smiled a shark toothed smile. "I'm sure by the time they realise you are not in a hospital bed, it will be too late."

"You don't know my team." Clint grinned.

"I know them well enough. And I know that you can be compromised."

"Really?"

"You have a track record. Loki is only the most recent black spot in your file." He waved a buff folder that Clint hadn't noticed up till then. "Besides, you are the easiest to capture, the easiest to manipulate."

"Why is it always me?" Clint asked, not really talking to the bad guy, rather he was talking to the universe as a whole. "Seriously. Why me? How come everybody seems to think I'm the weak spot? I may not have superpowers, but I'm a fucking assassin! Why not Tony? I mean, take away his suit and he's just a poor little billionaire! Or Natasha, she's the girl! Shouldn't you be stereotyping her as weak?"

"You are joking. She is the Black Widow. We know what she can do." He laughed, and Clint laughed too. "You are obviously not yet able to take your situation seriously. Is okay. We have time." He leaned down and scratched gently at Clint's hair through the bars of the cage. Clint didn't have room to pull away. "Stay. Think. I will be back later."

He turned and walked out.

"So," Clint said, smiling winningly around at his guards. "How about them Yankees?"

He should be worried. He knew he should be worried. And he was. sort of. But he wasn't as worried as anyone else in a similar position would be. Coulson was coming. The Avengers too of course. But Coulson was coming. He had to be, and everyone who had hurt Clint would be in for a very bad time when he got there.

Coulson was coming. It would be alright.

* * *

**Yeah, I know it's short, but it's just to set up the situation. Following chapters should be longer.**


	2. Chapter 2

Coulson's fingers itched. He tapped them against his leg, listening to the patterns they made. He wasn't surprised when he heard Clint's name in the beats.

-.-. .-.. .. -. - - - / ..-. .-. .- -. -.-. .. ... / -... .- .-. - - -.

Clinton Francis Barton.

He was worried. Clint was hurt. But he had it under control. He did. He was needed with the team. There had been non-stop incidents all morning, and he was needed to organise their efforts and co-ordinate with the police, fire department, paramedics...

Clint had been taken away by the paramedics. He'd just collapsed, and they'd put him in an ambulance and assured them that he'd be well taken care of. That was three hours ago. There was no news yet.

"Coulson, how are Natasha and Hulk doing?" Steve's voice came over the com.

"They have their area under control, although it's not yet entirely contained."

"Okay, Iron Man, and I are just about done at this one, shall we swing over and join them?"

"Yes." Coulson's earpiece beeped and then Jasper came on the line.

"Sorry, Phil. We have another one."

"Strike that. You're needed up town."

"Another one?"

"Yep." Coulson channelled all his annoyance and frustration into that one word. It was his only chance to vent until these attacks stopped. He wanted to go to Clint. That's where he was supposed to be. He should be sitting at his bedside. They'd promised each other when they started dating that they wouldn't have to wake up in a hospital alone again. They'd broken that promise more than once, but they always tried. It physically hurt to stand here directing the forces of good while the love of his life languished in a hospital bed. But, with Thor in Asgard and Clint injured, the team was two members down. He was needed more here.

"Guys?" Steve's voice came over the com again. "Does this seem a little... I don't know, staged? Every moment we stop one attack, another one starts on the other side of the city. It feels like..."

"Like someone's trying to keep us distracted. Busy," Natasha answered.

"Awesome," Tony's voice came. "No wonder we're not getting anywhere."

"Something's not right here. Avengers assemble back at the Tower. We need to figure out what's going on." Coulson made the decision. There was something strange going on here, and the regular agents would be able to handle the attacks (although, Coulson was pretty sure that the attacks would stop as soon as the Avengers themselves were off the street).

* * *

They gathered in the War Room. Yes, Avengers Tower had a War Room.

"So?" Stark asked as he sat down at the large round table. "What's the target?"

"Let's look at the pattern of attacks. JARVIS?"

"Certainly, Agent Coulson." A holographic map appeared above the table. They all looked at it for a long moment.

"They're drawing us away from the tower. And away from SHIELD," Natasha said quietly.

"But why? They haven't tried anything here or there. Uh, have they?" Bruce blinked and looked up at where they all assumed JARVIS was.

"No, Dr Banner. There has been no unusual activity here or at the local SHIELD Base."

"Hmm."

"This doesn't make any sense." Phil's hand started tapping again, and he frowned. He liked it when things made sense. "Why distract us when there's nothing to distract us from?"

"Sir?" a voice in his com, "the attacks have come to a complete halt."

"Roger that. So it's definitely that they want to mess with the Avengers. Otherwise the attacks would have continued."

Silence fell. They all stared blankly at the map, trying to get more information from it. The only noise was the rhythmic tapping of Coulson's fingers against the table.

"This is getting us nowhere," Steve announced. "Stand down. Coulson, go check on Clint. Everyone else grab a shower and get out of costume. We'll brainstorm some more over dinner."

Something in Coulson's chest let go. He was released. He could go check on Clint.

* * *

"What do you mean he wasn't brought in?"

"I'm sorry sir, if his injuries were serious, they may have transported him to the nearest emergency room instead."

"Right. Fine. Thank you for your help." Phil stormed out of the SHIELD infirmary. He had his phone out and was dialling the number of the nearest hospital even as he walked to his car. "Hello, do you have a patient named Clinton F Barton? Are you sure? Check again please, he was injured in an attack in Midtown today and... Right. Thank you." He hung up with slightly more force than necessary. He wasn't panicking. He wasn't. He dialled the next hospital's number. "Clint Barton. He was brought in today with... no record, are you sure? Please, double check. Fine. Thank you."

The pattern repeated for every hospital, clinic and surgery in the city. Not a single one had treated Hawkeye. Coulson wasn't panicking though. He really wasn't. Clint would be fine. He had to be. And if Phil was biting down on his lower lip, that didn't mean he was panicking. Really, it didn't.

Clint would be fine.

* * *

Clint was fine. in fact, he was bored. He had no idea how much time had passed since he'd had that conversation with the Bad Boss, but it felt like a long time. There were no clocks, and no natural light, which made it difficult to judge. He'd tried talking to his guards, but they wouldn't even look at him, let alone engage in conversation. The only time he'd got their attention was when he'd tried smashing his manacles against the roof of his cage, trying to force it open. He hadn't expected it to succeed, he just needed to do _something_. They'd tasered him for that.

He was really bored. And cold. And his back was hurting from the way the chains and the cage forced him to sit.

Just as he was wondering about trying to escape again, just for kicks, the Big Bad Boss came back in.

"Agent Barton. Are you willing to talk yet?"

"Really not. You need to work on your interrogation techniques, dude. I'm not even bothered."

The Boss smiled gently, like an amused parent, but his eyes were flat and cold.

"I'll see what I can do about living up to your standards, dear boy." He motioned to one of the guards. "Water."

The guard moved to the back of the room and came back with a hose. The nozzle was firmly pointed at Clint.

"What's-" That's as far as Clint got before the hose turned on and he was bombarded with freezing cold water. The cage and the chains meant that he couldn't move out of the flow of the water. He hunched himself up, trying to make a smaller target.

Abruptly, the water stopped. It drained away slowly down a grate Clint hadn't noticed under his cage.

"The access codes, Agent Barton."

"Fuck you." He was shivering and his teeth were chattering.

"Wash his mouth out." Clint took a blast of water directly to his face, knocking him backwards against the bars. His entire front was soon soaked with icy water. Then the water stopped again.

"You can stop this, Clint. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

"No."

Another blast of water, he was shivering badly now, and his head felt fuzzy and slow. The water stopped again and all he could do was curl up and quake.

"Get him out." The roof of the cage opened and gentle hands lifted him out and placed him on the floor in front of the Big Bad Boss. The Boss reached down and stroked his hand through Clint's hair. He could tell this was going to be a thing. "Do you think I want to do this? Do you think I enjoy hurting you?" A thick, warm towel was draped around him and he was patted dry. He felt himself make a small noise of confusion. Hypothermia was becoming a real worry. "I take care of my things, Agent Barton. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know, and you will become one of my things."

Clint clumsily tried to push him away.

"Stop."

"Now really. Let me take care of you." He felt his sodden boxers get sliced away and he felt a moment of panic, but there was nothing sexual in the motion. The towel rubbed gently. "Are you hungry? Do you need the bathroom?" Clint didn't answer. "Really, Agent Barton. Are you really so stubborn? I'd take this opportunity, it may be hours before I decide to come and see you again."

"Fine. Bathroom."

"Good man." The Boss helped him up, but the chains connecting his wrists to his ankles made it impossible for Clint to stand full. He settled for a hunched, bent legged hobble towards a doorway on the far wall. It was a fairly large bathroom, and Clint was sat carefully down on the toilet. Boss turned his back but he didn't leave the room. Clint was slightly insulted that he felt safe enough to turn his back, although he knew he was in no state to fight right now. Even if he did manage to get his chains around the Boss's neck (doubtful with his reactions sluggish from the cold) one of the guards had followed them and he was standing in the doorway with his taser at the ready. There was no opportunity here.

Clint did his business and stood up shakily.

"Do you want a warm shower?" the Boss asked. Clint flinched and shook his head. He didn't trust a pressurised pulse of water right now. "Okay. You're doing so well, Clint." He wrapped an arm around the agent and helped him back towards the cage. Barton couldn't help but notice he wasn't offered any clothes.

A pile of towels had been added to the bottom of the cage, along with two bowls, one with water, one with fruit. Clint stared. This care he was being shown was much creepier than the torture. But Clint knew interrogation techniques. He knew what was going on. He wasn't going to fall for it.

Two of the guards took hold of him, one under each arm, and they lifted him back into the cage. A hand on each shoulder forced him down so that they could close the lid on him. He pulled one of the towels up over him, trying to stop his shaking.

He was okay. He just had to hold out. Coulson was coming. He had to be.

* * *

Coulson wasn't coming. Coulson was pissed. He wasn't panicking. He was just really, really pissed. They'd lost Clint. He'd trusted them to take care of him and he'd got hurt and they'd lost him.

"JARVIS, get the others in here. Now."

"I've informed then, Agent Coulson. What has happened?"

"Just get them in here. Get them in here right now." He started pacing back and forth, ten steps one way, ten steps the other. He needed to hold it together. He needed not to panic. Clint needed him.

One by one, the Avengers came running into the room. JARVIS had apparently impressed upon them the urgency.

"Clint is missing," Coulson said as soon as they were all there. He didn't stop pacing. "The ambulance that took him when he collapsed wasn't a real ambulance. That's what the distractions were for. Keeping us from noticing he was gone. Someone took him."

Bruce took a slow controlled breath. His eyes were greener that usual.

"Well then. We'll get him back," Steve said. No, not Steve. Captain America.

"We'll get him back," Coulson parroted. "We'd better get him back."

"Coulson," Natasha put her hand on his back, "calm down. Breathe. We need to figure out who took him. We'll get him back, but we need you calm for that."

Phil stopped pacing and took a deep breath. He pulled on the mantle of Agent Coulson and he forced himself to calm down.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"God, don't apologize. Seriously, Agent. Don't." Tony smiled at him. Coulson looked around at the Avengers, seeing their worry and their strengths. If anyone could save Clint, it was these people. He just had to have faith. And when he looked at Captain America, he knew everything would be okay. Eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, so suddenly this got a bunch darker than I'd intended it to. I'd meant for this one to have vulnerable!Clint and Badass!Coulson to balance the rest of the series. Instead; torture. It's not massively explicit though. See end for warnings.**

* * *

Clint slept for a while. The towels and the closeness of the cage were actually vaguely comforting, in a weird way. Hey, Clint never said he was normal. He'd always preferred enclosed spaces to wide open ones. He didn't mind being out in the open, as long as Nat or Phil had his back, but he'd always felt safest when he was surrounded by walls, able to see without being seen. And the towels, well, he was known for making nests out of blankets and such. The towels felt enough like that in his disoriented state that it helped him doze off.

He woke up feeling more himself. He was still cold, but no longer shaking or in danger of freezing. His head was clearer, but he didn't feel like he'd slept that long. It felt more like a refreshing nap than anything. He could actually think again. His body, however... all his muscles were screaming at him. Being forced by the chains and the bars of the cage to hold such an awkward position wasn't doing him any good.

The shock of the cold hadn't helped either.

He blinked slowly and held as still as he could. He looked around trying to be subtle. He was still in the middle of the basement. Still on the concrete floor. But the bowls of fruit and water were gone, and the towel covering him was a different colour. There were still four guards, one at each corner of his cage. But they were different guards. They were wearing suits of the same cut and they had the same earpieces in, but they were different men.

He'd slept through a shift change.

How long had he slept? How much had he missed? Had anything been done to him while he was asleep? He'd been sure that he'd only slept half an hour or so, but the evidence suggested it had been much longer. Anything could have happened while he was out.

He shivered slightly, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

But he was okay. He just had to keep it together. Because Coulson was coming for him.

* * *

"I've tracked his GPS transmitter," Stark said as they rushed through the streets. "He's by the river." And really, it had taken them too long to remember that Clint had a Stark Industries GPS tracked in his quiver. And his boots. And his shirt. And it's entirely possible that Tony got entirely too attached to the team and put transmitters wherever they let him. Which was pretty much everywhere, although they'd drawn the line at letting him inject transmitters into them like he'd wanted.

Coulson's heart felt tight in his chest and he had the meat of his lower lip clamped tightly between his teeth. This had to work. They'd follow the transmitter, and Clint would be right there and he's be fine. It had to work.

_Be okay. Please, be okay. I only just got back to you._

Realistically, he knew that the odds were not very good. If Clint's tracker was correct, then he was just sitting by the side of the river. Which meant that either his tracker had been removed, or that they were going to find Clint's body.

Phil really didn't want to find Clint's body.

The car pulled to a stop and they all piled out. If Phil hadn't been so worried, he'd probably have found it amusing. Iron Man, Captain America, Black Widow, all piling out of an armoured hummer in full costume, followed by Phil and Bruce. It was like a sort of Superhero Clown-Car. Especially when a second Hummer pulled up with a screech seconds later and dozens of suited and booted agents piled out. Fury had pulled out all the stops when he'd heard Phil's worried voice.

They all raced down to the Hudson, Phil near the front of the pack despite his limp and lack of superpowers. When he caught sight of a flash of dark purple and black, he froze. His whole body just seized up, and he fell to his knees.

There was blood. A lot of blood, and that's all Phil sees. A hand landed on his shoulder but he barely felt it.

"Phil! Phil! Snap out of it!" The hand shook him, roughly. "Phil, there's no body. You hear me?"

He barely heard it over the roaring in his ears but as soon as it gets through, he pulled away and dashed forward to see for himself. He stumbled again when he gets a good look. There's so much blood. Clint's uniform is ripped. Bow is broken, along with each and every one of his arrows. But the voice, he realised belatedly that it was Tony's, was right. There was no body. Clint wasn't there.

Coulson sighed and closed his eyes, swaying slightly. Clint wasn't there. He wasn't dead.

Natasha made a noise of disgust and Phil's eyes snapped open.

"What?"

"It's not human."

"What?"

"The blood." She waved a field test at him. "It's not human."

"It's not Clint's?" He needed to hear it.

"It's not Clint's," she assured him.

"Good. That's good." He let the tension drain out of him, and then he realised that this just meant that they still hadn't found Clint yet.

"You know, if you'd let me give everyone sub-dermal transmitters..." Tony started, then trailed off. It didn't stop the stab of guilt Phil felt, even though it wasn't his fault Clint turned down the idea. Tony had offered them each the transmitters individually, and they'd all refused. Phil was definitely regretting that now. In fact, as soon as Clint was safe he was going to talk him into letting Tony inject him with whatever he wanted to, if it would keep him safe.

"Tony, get everything here analysed. There has to be something here that can lead us back to Clint," Steve ordered. Phil turned away, facing the nearby wall, and he started counting the bricks.

The wall beside the river was about four foot high, and made of standard red bricks. There were 19 rows to a column. That bothered him. 19 was wrong. He counted again. Some of the bricks were redder than others. He counted the ones that had been splattered with Not-Clint's Blood. There were 34. That's a lot of blood. But it was Not-Clint's Blood. 34 was a bad number. He counted again, even though it meant looking at the blood.

"Are you alright?" Bruce's voice came quietly at his elbow. He had to force himself to stop counting and answer.

"Not particularly."

"Stupid question." Bruce smiled wryly, and shook his head. Phil felt his mouth twitch in response.

"It's not Clint's blood. It's not his blood."

"That's right. Are you...? You're not going to faint or anything, are you?" Bruce looked legitimately worried, and Coulson felt himself laugh. It came out strangled and wrong, but it was definitely a laugh.

"No. It's not Clint's blood." He wasn't sure why he needed to keep saying it. It was like if he kept saying it, he could make it true. Even though he'd heard Natasha say it was true, even though he'd seen the test with his own eyes. It was only true as long as he kept saying it. If he stopped, he thought that maybe it would become a lie. That it would stop being Not-Clint's Blood.

"It's not Clint's blood," Bruce parroted back, and Coulson shuddered.

"It's not Clint's blood. It's not his blood."

* * *

Clint's blood was actually safely in his veins, at least for now. He sat in his cage, back crooked, his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. The metal bands of the manacles had rubbed at the flesh of his wrists and ankles, leaving them swollen and red. He hated that he wasn't able to tell how much time had passed. He hated that more than the ache of his back and the soreness of his wrists and ankles. He could have been here anything from a few hours to over a day. And he hated the waiting. He could deal with torture, with questioning. He could fight against that. But this sitting grated on him.

The door opened, and as though he'd sensed Clint's impatience, the Big Bad Boss walked into the basement.

"Hello, Clint."

"I preferred Agent Barton."

"I'm sure you did." He walked to stand directly in front of the cage, hands in his pockets. "Are you ready to give me the access codes to Stark Tower?"

"Bite me."

"Maybe later. I had something else in mind for this part of the entertainment, but I promise to take your ideas on board." The man's cold smile and sincere tone had Clint flinching back. "Get him out."

The roof of the cage opened and Clint was lifted out by four calloused hands. He was placed on the concrete floor so that he was kneeling down, his ass resting on his heels. He felt exposed, but didn't show it, smirking as he stretched his shoulders back as far as he could and cricked his neck from side to side.

"Fire," The Boss said, and one of the guards moved to the back of the room. He came back with a tray which he placed on a nearby table. That table... it hadn't been there when Clint fell to sleep. What else had happened while he was out of it? The guard moved away again and came back with a... oh God.

_That's a blowtorch, _Clint's brain informed him. _A fucking blowtorch._

Clint had been tortured before, of course. He'd been cut and burned and electrocuted, but a fucking blowtorch? Really?

Of course, sadist that this guy was, he turned on the blowtorch immediately. He held it up and tilted it from side to side, the flame reflected in his eyes and shadows flickering across his face.

Clint braced himself.

"Maybe later," the Boss said, and put it aside. He picked up an everyday bic lighter instead and flicked it on. One of the guards reached down without prompting and lifted one of Clint's hands up, dragging the other with it by the chain. Clint immediately folded both hands into fists.

It didn't help.

* * *

His hands were only the start of it of course. Later, he laughed at himself for how scared he was and how much he'd thought the burns on his hands had hurt. The red hot coal they forced into his mouth hurt worse. Much worse. The pins they heated and shoved under his fingernails, under his toenails, into his earlobes, those hurt worse too. His feet were the worst though. He'd thrown up all over himself when they did his feet.

They'd used the blowtorch on his feet.

The Boss wrapped an arm around him afterwards and told him it was okay. That all he had to do was tell him the codes for Stark Tower. Then it would all stop.

"Fuck you." Clint managed through his mangled mouth. A hand gently stroked though his hair.

"Clean him up."

Two of the guards picked him up, surprising him with the care they took not to jostle him of touch his wounds. They carried him through to the bathroom and laid him into the bath. The Boss turned on the shower (lukewarm) and hosed him off. Blood ran from under his manacles where he'd pulled against them, and the water felt like acid on his burns.

"Why are you doing this to yourself? Do you think it makes me happy to have to hurt you?" He wet a cloth and wiped around Clint's mouth.

"Yeah, because I'm _making_ you torture me." Clint grinned fiercely. He wasn't broken. He'd been hurt worse than this. Not a lot worse than this... but whatever. He could deal. He only had to last until the others came for him.

The guards lifted him back out of the bath and placed him on the floor where they could pat him dry.

"Fetch him some fresh food and water," the Boss called back into the main room and one of the other guards wandered off. Clint knew what was going on. He knew that the Boss was trying to establish rapport, that he wanted Clint to be completely reliant on him. It was clever. Breaking someone with kindness was a lot harder than breaking them with pain, but it did usually work when the person has a history of abuse. The way Clint did.

It wasn't working. Clint would let him clean and feed him because he had to, but he wasn't going to fall for it. He wasn't going to break.

He wondered how long he'd been missing.

The guard came over with a plate of bread and butter and a bowl of water. Clint hadn't eaten any of the fruit or drank any of the water they'd left him before, and they'd been gone from his cage when he'd woken up. He wasn't sure whether to eat the bread or not. He debated with himself for a long moment while the Boss patiently held a small piece of bread out. Eventually he figured that keeping his strength up was more important than the loss of dignity at being hand fed, or the risk of drugs. He could resist drugs. He ate the bread. It hurt to try and chew, the burns in his mouth splitting open and pouring a coppery taste in. The Boss soaked the next piece in his water bowl to soften it before offering it to Clint.

"I would offer you medical treatment, but you haven't earned that. You're doing so well, Clint. You barely even screamed. I want you to think long and hard though. Why shouldn't you tell us the codes? You have them, don't you? The codes to all the rooms in the tower. The Avengers' suites, the research labs, Tony's workshop, you have codes to them all. What's it really going to hurt if you tell us? You think your little friends won't be able to stop us?"

Clint simply ate his damp bread in silence. When he was done, the guards picked him up and carried him back to his cage. He let his body go limp, and curled up in the towels. He was so tired, but he couldn't sleep yet. There was something...they were talking...

What were they...?

Oh. Oh my. Wasn't that interesting?

* * *

** Torture with a blowtorch and with messing with Clint's head. A little angst, implication of past abuse, mental health issues and, of course, OCD. Torture is not explicit but some of you may find it disturbing.**


	4. Chapter 4

**See end for warnings.**

* * *

Nothing. There was nothing. Coulson paced the conference room like a caged animal, ten steps one way, ten steps the other, his hands fisted at his sides.

"It's going to be at least an hour or so before the labs will have any data," Fury was saying. "I suggest you all go get checked out by medical, get some food in you." The others all started talking at once, their objections piling on top of one another. Phil didn't speak, just kept walking, his jaw tight. Fury held up a hand to ward off their noise. "I've arranged for agents to patrol, paying special attention to the areas around the Tower and the Base. Unless the world tries to end, your priority is getting Barton back. But you can't do that like this. Go, eat. You can't do anything until the labs get back to us anyway."

There was a long pause and then Steve slowly nodded his acquiescence. The team fell into line after that. Coulson didn't. He just kept pacing back and forth.

"Agent Coulson. Please remain behind."

Coulson didn't acknowledge. He just kept pacing. The team all looked at him before they left the room.

"Phil." A hand on his arm, stopping him from moving. "Phil, breathe. Come on. It's18:22. You only have 8 minutes before you're scheduled to eat."

Sometimes Phil hated that his Boss knew him so well.

"That doesn't matter. Clint's more important."

"I know. I just wanted you to pay attention. I want you to calm down and eat on time."

"I can't. Clint. Clint's missing."

"I know. But you're on the edge. You need to stick to your routines while you can."

"It feels wrong. To go and eat while Clint's going through God knows what."

"Tell you what, you go and eat on time and I'll let you interview the guys we have in custody."

"What? What guys in custody?" Phil was quietly furious. Why hadn't Fury told him this sooner?

"From the distractions this morning. You and the team had several of them brought in, remember?"

Right. Fuck. They'd all completely forgotten about that. They'd been so caught up in trying to find Clint and wondering why this had happened that they'd completely disregarded a potential source of information. Phil bit down hard on his lower lip. It wasn't right. He needed to be more in control than this.

"I would appreciate the chance to interview them, boss."

"Then go and eat on time. Get some control back. I'll even let you take Romanov with you into the interrogation."

"Thanks, Nick."

"Get out of here." Phil started towards the door, calculating the fastest route to the mess hall. "Phil? We're going to get him back."

"Yes. We are." And for the first time in hours, Phil truly believed it.

* * *

Clint wasn't sure he believed Coulson was coming anymore. His time sense was messed up, but he was pretty sure he'd been locked up for a full day and night, maybe longer. And Phil wasn't here. He hadn't come. It could just be a matter of time, of course. But Clint hurts. He hurts, and he's not sure Phil will want him if he even comes.

_Stop it. Coulson is coming. You know it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself._ The voice in his head sounds just like Natasha. And she would come for him. the team would come for him. Coulson would come for him, even if he didn't want him anymore.

_Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You have more important things to consider._ He shook himself and frowned. He did have a lot to think about. He had a vague memory from just before he succumbed to unconsciousness, after being tortured. He was pretty sure it was important. He just couldn't get a grip on it. It was fuzzy around the edge.

A phone ringing.

A voice.

"Yes, sir. I understand. That's why you hired me, Mr..." and then it fades away. But even that was enough to make Clint think.

He was so sure that Big Bad Boss was running the show. But it seemed like there was a Man Behind the Curtain after all. Boss was downgraded as of now to Head Henchman. Clint pulled his towel closer around him. He just wished that he could remember the rest of the phone conversation. Who had Head Henchman been talking to? If he could figure out who was behind his kidnapping, he could figure out what they wanted. He could figure out how to get away.

He sat up slightly, trying to get more comfortable. The towels rubbed and pulled at the tender skin of his burns. He'd barely moved when the door to the basement opened and Head Henchmen came in. His four generic guards stood to attention. He was pretty sure they were the first guards back again, the ones who were there when he'd gotten soaked. Which meant he'd slept through another shift change. How long had he been stuck in the cage?

"Clint. How are you feeling?"

"Like I was burned with a fucking blowtorch. How do you think?"

"Now, now. I think we had a conversation about you being so disrespectful."

Clint laughed roughly, almost hysterical.

"Whatever."

"We've done cold. We've done hot. I think sharp is next." He waved a negligent hand to the guards. "Get him out."

Two of the guards opened up the top of his cage and leaned down to lift him out. Clint did not struggle. They pulled the towel away from him and put him down on the cold, hard floor in front of the Head Henchman. The table that had had the fiery paraphernalia on it was now filled with different implements.

"I got things ready while you were sleeping." He reached out and picked up a scalpel, testing the edge of it with his thumb. Blood bloomed and he smiled before sucking it off. "What do you think, hmm? Or shall we start smaller?" Clint's stomach turned as Head Henchman made a few practice thrusts with the scalpel. He then placed the scalpel down on the table. It was too high for Clint to see what else was on there. He knew that it was yet another psychological tactic, but it bothered him. He wanted to know what was coming. He shifted slightly, the kneeling pose he'd been forced into uncomfortable.

"Maybe these." Head Henchman had several needles, long, thick darning needles, in spread out between his fingers. They were heavy looking and wider than regular sewing needles. ( And Clint's sewn his own clothes, back in the circus, and he's sewn his skin back together more than once. He knows needles. He knows these will hurt.)

They started with his feet, which was probably a blessing. They shoved the needles up under his toenails and into the webbing between his toes.

"Are you ready to talk to me, sweetheart?" a hand carded through his hair as he struggled to catch his breath. "No? Alright."

Next, his hands. Needles under his nails again. He can force the pain away, it's a familiar sort of suffering. But he should have been paying attention, not trying to block it out. He was blindsided when the guards grabbed him and forced him backwards, spreading his legs apart.

He panicked.

He's not proud of that fact, but panic is a reasonable reaction to being forced to bare the most intimate part of you to a man with pointy objects.

A scalpel pressed in along the line of his ribs brought him back to the present. It's an intense sharpness that clears his head.

"There you are," Head Henchman said, cleaning Clint's blood off his hands with a clean white handkerchief. "You went away for a little while then." He stroked Clint's cheek softly and Clint pulled away (but not before seeing his own blood under Head Henchman's fingernails). "I want you to be right here while we do this next bit."

"Fuck you!"

Head Henchman picked up one of the darning needles. He moved to kneel down between Clint's spread legs.

"You can end this at any time, remember. All you have to do is give me the codes to Stark Tower."

He reached down. He had the needle in his hand. He was reaching for... Oh shit. Clint kicked him as hard as he could in the face. It wasn't very hard, because the chains limited his movement, but luckily, the metal of the manacle caught the bastard on his left temple.

"Gah!" He fell backwards and clutched at his face, blood dripping between his fingers. "You little..! Get him back in his cage. No food. No water. And take away his towels."

Clint let himself be carried back to the dog cage. He let them take the bowls of damp bread and water. He let them take his towels so he was sitting on the cold concrete. He grinned, and his smile had blood in it.

* * *

Coulson started his dinner at precisely 18:30. He hated how the tension just flowed out of him at this sop to his routine. The cafeteria was serving Spaghetti and Meatballs. He gets five meatballs in marinara sauce on a bed of spaghetti. He has the recipes for all the cafeteria meals in his office and he knows everything that goes into each serving.

The marinara sauce looks nothing like blood, but as he ate he kept getting flashes of the scene down by the river. The pool of Not Clint's Blood. He ignored it and forced himself to keep eating.

"Natasha, I'll need you to assist with an interrogation after we've eaten." His voice was surprisingly level and calm. He took another mouthful of spaghetti, chewed fifteen times, swallowed. Only then did he look up. The Avengers were all looking at him, wide eyed.

"Interrogate who?" Natasha asked.

"The gentlemen who were arrested during the distractions this morning."

"Crap," Tony said, shaking his head. "I completely forgot about them."

"That was probably the point," Bruce frowned. "Distractions in the morning to distract us from Clint, Clint to distract us from the distractions. Do you think they took Clint on purpose, or would any of us do?"

"If I was going to attack us, I'd start with Clint," Steve replied, somewhat apologetically. "He's more under the radar than the rest of us. The only thing that you can easily find out about him is that he used to be in the circus as a kid and that he uses a bow and arrow. He doesn't have any abilities."

"No, but he is the best at hand to hand, bar Natasha. And he never, ever misses," Phil defended.

"Which is why they probably drugged him." Steve shrugged. "I'm sorry. But he's a target as far as most people are concerned."

"I suppose." Phil kept eating and tried not to think. He needed to have a clear head if he was to get Clint's whereabouts from the idiots in interrogation.

He finished his food, perfectly in keeping with his routine. He felt more like himself than he had since Clint had gone missing. He tapped his fingers against the table, waiting for Natasha to finish eating. Clint's name came out of the beats.

-.-. .-.. .. -. - / ..-. .-. .- -. -.-. .. ... / -... .- .-. - - -.

He was going to find him. He was going to get him back.

He was Phil Fucking Coulson. He once brought a knife to a gun fight and still won. He could do this.

* * *

**More torture. Pins under nails, cutting, psychological abuse. Threat of genital piercing. OCD and issues with food.**


	5. Chapter 5

** Slightly longer Author's note than usual. First, I had a comment about my putting the warnings on the end rather than at the beginning. I understand where they commenter is coming from, but I truly believe that trigger warnings at the start can lessen the impact for people who don't really want to be warned. That's why I put them at the bottom so people can choose whether or not they want to be warned. I would welcome opinions on this though.**

**On that note ****_SEE END FOR WARNINGS. _**

**I know this one is slightly late, and it's kind of short. Sorry. I meant to get it finished to put up at the regular time but I'm desperately short for cash lately, and I got some editing work that took precedence. Speaking of hard up for cash... (please forgive me for this shameless self advertising) I've opened an Etsy shop called wordsandthings selling commissioned writing. It isn't fanfiction, because that would be illegal as it's for profit, but if you like my writing come and check it out. Ask me to write something, anything your heart desires (that doesn't infringe on copyright). Custom written poetry or stories for your loved ones makes an excellent holiday gift!**

**Now that I've hawked my wares like a shameless whore, please enjoy the latest chapter, and I apologise again for being late with it.**

* * *

Phil walked along the corridor, Natasha slightly behind him on his left. He felt Clint's absence more conspicuously than he had before. Clint should have been flanking him on the right. It felt like his back wasn't being watched without him there. They made their way to the interrogation room where one of the distraction men was being held. Phil paused at the door, and took a deep breath. Then he pulled the mantle of Agent Coulson tightly around him and he stepped inside. He walked over to the table and pulled out a chair and sat down. He didn't have to turn around to know that Natasha had stalked to the back of the room to lean against the wall and glower threateningly.

"Mr Edwards. You understand why you're here?"

"Yes. But I know my rights, you can't just keep me here."

"Actually, SHIELD has every right to keep you here. You were caught red handed in the operation of what has been classified as an act of terrorism." He saw the man flinch and knew that Natasha had given him her best smile. "That means we can do pretty much whatever we like with you."

"Look. I was just a hired man."

"We know that. We're interested in who hired you."

"I don't know much."

"We don't expect you to know everything. We just want to hear what you do know." Coulson opened the notepad he'd carried in with him, clicked his pen and tilted his head inquisitively.

* * *

Stark threw the lab report down on the desk in disgust and scowled at the ear-buds and weapons they'd taken from the distractions.

"Tony?" Steve asked tentatively, reaching out a hand for Tony's shoulder.

"Nothing. There's nothing. It's all generic fucking Hammer tech. All this tells us is that whoever has Legolas has really fucking poor taste in tech or hates me and my company enough to go with the crappy alternative."

"Hammer? Isn't that the man who broke the guy who tried to kill you out of jail?"

"hmm? Oh, yeah. But they could get his crappy tech at any store. It's not like it's specialised or anything."

"Oh."

"Exactly. This isn't a lead. It isn't even a hint. We'd better hope that Coulson's getting info from the goons, because otherwise, we've got nothing."

* * *

Clint hurt. He hurt a lot. He hadn't slept since the last torture session. His nails all ached and his feet were killing him. But he was still alive. He was still alive, and Coulson was coming. He had to be. He'd let his fear and pain get the better of him before, but he couldn't lose hope. Coulson would be pissed at him if he was already broken when he came to save him. He knew that this flare of hope probably wouldn't last too long. Torture tended to knock the spirit out of you. But Clint was determined to make the most of it while it lasted. He took another look around the room, casing it again. He didn't really get any new information, but at least he felt more like he was doing something. Next, he attempted to engage his guards in conversation.

"So, what's a goon like you doing in a place like this?"

"You come here often?"

"My name is Clint, you know. You should remember it. You'll be begging me for mercy later."

Okay, so he didn't try too hard to get them to chat to him. they were consummate professionals. They weren't going to talk to him. The Man Behind the Curtain had obviously been to Goons R Us, and Clint wasn't going to get anywhere with them.

This time, he didn't fall asleep between sessions. He did lay back down and squint his eyes though. It had only been a couple of hours by Clint's estimation before the Head Henchman came back in, flanked by four new goons.

"Is he out?"

"Yeah, he was making a ruckus at first, but the last hour he's been out of it."

"Okay. Good. Changeover and bring in the stuff for the next bit." The four goons who had been guarding him moved out and up the stairs and they were replaced with the four new guys. Head Henchman gathered up the Pointy Stuff from the Torture Table and carried it to the back of the room. One of the guards who'd left came back with a taser, a cattle prod and a car battery. He put them on the Torture Table before leaving again, followed by the Head Henchman. The door closed behind them.

Huh. Clint frowned. If they'd been changing the guards every couple of hours, then he hadn't been here as long as he thought. He hated fucking mind games. Nat was good at them, and he could do them if he had to, but he really, really fucking hated them.

Electrocution wasn't on his list of awesomeness either. He really wasn't looking forward to the next round. He decided to pretend to be asleep for as long as he could. He had to buy more time for Coulson to come and get him. But he'd barely closed his eyes before a loud bang startled him and he jerked upright. Well, as upright as he could get in the cage.

Clint frowned as he looked around. It seemed suspicious to him that there was a loud noise just after they got everything ready for the next session. He tried to remember whether there had been a similar noise the other times he'd woken up, but the times in between the pain were hazy and difficult to keep hold of.

The door opened.

"Ah, good, you're awake. And how are we this fine morning?" The Head henchman approached and stood directly in front of Clint's cage. Clint was pleased to see that he had a large circular bruise with a cut at the centre on his temple.

"Fine thanks." No way was it already morning. If all the times he'd slept were about the same length as this one then it was barely early evening. No wonder things felt so strange and disconnected, his time sense was all screwed up. "I'm enjoying the hospitality."

"Good, good." He waved a hand at the guards. "Get him out."

Clint kept his body limp and let them lift him out.

* * *

"Look, I don't know his name, all right?" Edwards said. His hands were shaking, and water had spilled out onto the table from the glass they'd given him. "I don't know who hired me. It was a middle man, some sort of expert."

"What kind of expert?" Coulson asked, his voice calm and level.

"I don't know. He said he was an expert at taking things apart."

"Do you at least know the name of this expert?"

"No. I told you, he didn't tell me. He didn't tell any of us. He just rounded us up, told us there was money in keeping you busy and away from the archer. Oh, and he handed out the tech. Said it was a gift from our employer." Coulson felt Natasha tense behind him and had to take a deep breath. That suggested that Clint was the target from the get go.

"The tech came directly from your employer?"

"That's what I said, right? It was shit though, half of it fell apart and the rest of it just didn't work. Now, I hate Stark as much as the next guy, but I'd still use Stark Tech over that crap." He sighed. "I don't know what else to tell you. I haven't seen anything, I haven't heard anything, I don't know anything."

"Thank you, Mr Edwards. You've been incredibly helpful."

"Please don't tell the others that."

"Of course. Natasha, escort Mr Edwards back to his holding room."

Natasha stalked forward and Edwards leaped out of his seat and kept a good couple of feet between him and Natasha as they headed out of the room. Coulson smiled mildly and then dropped his head forward to rest on his hands on the table.

This was deliberate. Whoever had planned this attack, they'd wanted Clint specifically. And they'd hired what sounded like an expert in interrogation to work as a middleman.

This was... not good. He laughed a little, but it wasn't a happy sound. None of this was good. It hadn't been good since Clint had disappeared.

He worried his lower lip between his teeth. For the first time since this whole mess had started, he really thought about what might be happening to Clint. 'An expert in taking things apart,' Edwards had said. And that's who had Clint. If he did manage to get Clint back, who knew what state he'd be in. Coulson was barely holding himself together, how was he supposed to take care of Clint?

Natasha re-entered the room, silent as a ghost. Her hand, warm and real gently set down on the centre of Coulson's back.

"We're going to get him back. And we're going to take care of him. We'll put him back together."

"Yeah." his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, tasting blood from his bitten lip. "I'm Phil Fucking Coulson, and I once broke up a riot with nothing but a boombox and Queen's greatest hits. If I could do that, then I can do this."

"I remember that mission. It sucked. This will be much easier." He could hear her smile. "Besides, this time you'll have Captain America, Iron Man and Dr Bruce Banner helping you out. Even Thor if Tony ever sorts out those transdimensional communicators."

"And the illustrious Black Widow?"

"Of course. I've killed men with my thighs, I can only imagine that fixing Clint will be easier. He was always a little broken anyway." that made Coulson laugh. He sat up and gave her a weak smile, and got one right back.

"They targeted him on purpose."

"Yes."

"And they don't like Stark very much."

"Who does?" Natasha said, but her smile was fond.

"They brought in an expert to break him fast and efficiently."

"Yes..." Slightly more hesitant this time.

"This is only the beginning. You don't want to break someone that fast unless it's specifically for information. They took him because they wanted to know something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know." Coulson frowned, his brow furrowing as he clenched his fists. "But I'm going to find out.

* * *

**Notes:**

**Actually, not that much to warn about this chapter. Threat of electrocution (which may carry into next chapter), OCD and mental health issues. Psychological torture, I guess.**


	6. Chapter 6

**PLEASE SEE END FOR WARNINGS!**

This chapter goes out to those who totally called some parts of it in the comments!

* * *

Electrical burns hurt more than regular burns. Or rather, they hurt differently. Regular burns don't come with an all encompassing shock of pain. They just hurt where the actual burn is; a deep, searing pain, sure. But it's localised. Being electrocuted leaves you with raw burns, but it also leaves you exhausted, unable to move away from the source of your pain, and aching in every muscle.

Clint pissed himself when they used the car battery on his upper thigh. Then he'd cried. Not much, not sobbing or anything, just a spattering of silent tears for his pain and his lost dignity. When the Head Henchman scooped him up gently and took him through to the bathroom to clean him up, Clint couldn't help turning into his warmth.

"There now," the Head Henchman brushed a hand through Clint's hair. "All nice and clean. You could stop this you know. All you have to do is tell me those codes. It hurts me to see you suffer like this."

Clint grunted and tried to pull away. The arms around him tightened.

"No, don't do that. Just hear me out."

"I've heard all I want to hear from you."

"Now, Clint. Don't be rude." He sighed. "Look, I really am trying to help you here. The sooner you talk to us, the sooner this will be over. The only way you're getting out of here is if you talk to me."

"No." And it said something about how the pain was affecting Clint that he continued. "Coulson is coming for me. The team are coming for me."

"Your team? They think you're dead. It was quite sad actually, when they found your uniform all bloodied up. The man in the suit looked like he was actually going to cry."

"What?" _It's okay, _Clint assured himself._ They'll do a DNA test, figure out it's not my blood._

"They all seemed very distraught. They went back to that tower and locked themselves away to cry in private."

"I don't believe you."

"That's alright. You don't have to. Now that they've given up, we have all the time in the world. It's just pointless for you to prolong this."

He stroked a hand through Clint's hair again, then motioned for the guards to take him back to his box. It was okay though. Clint was okay. He had to be. Because Coulson was coming.

* * *

Coulson looked around at the Avengers, gathered back in the briefing room.

"We now know that Clint was targeted purposefully. I've started to put together a schedule of Clint's actions for the past few days." He pressed a button, and a screen at the front of the room came on. On it was a timeline. It had things like 'in briefing', 'at the range' and 'home' on it, with beginning and end times along with details and information on what Clint did when and who else was there. There were surprisingly few gaps.

"Whoa," Tony said, sitting forward. "Little OCD there Coulson. Were you stalking your boyfriend or what?"

Phil didn't flinch. He didn't. He really didn't, which he feels bears repeating, because it's pretty awesome. Instead he took a deep breath and let it out.

"It is a little OCD. So am I. Can anyone help fill in the gaps?" He hadn't planned to say that. If Tony hadn't made that comment, he would never have said it. If Tony had said it the day before, Phil would probably never had said anything. But he had said it. He'd had to. He needed them to not be distracted by his behaviour. He needed them to be focussed on finding Clint, not on his quirks. He was sure they'd all noticed. He hadn't exactly been subtle.

"What?" Steve asked. "What's OCD?" They all looked slightly gobsmacked, apart from Naatasha. He should have known she'd figured it out.

"It's not really important. I'll give you all the full rundown after we get Clint back. I just thought you should all know given my behaviour earlier at the crime scene. It was...unprofessional." His fingers tapped against his leg without his permission. "Now, does anyone know where Clint was during these periods?" Coulson gestured to the screen. Bruce frowned at him, but Phil was pretty sure it wasn't because of what he'd said.

"He was with me 10 to 12 on Wednesday," Stark said. "And we will be talking about this later."

"I'm sure." Coulson filled in the block and frowned. That was the fifth block in the last three days that was filled with Clint and Tony. "What about here?" He pointed to another block.

"I took Steve and Clint to a baseball game and me and Clint caught a drink afterwards," Tony replied.

Coulson filled it in. now that he thought about it, he remembered Clint coming back late, smelling of peanuts and beer. He hadn't asked where he'd been. He understood that Clint needed time away from him while he was having his rough patch. But he was getting more control over himself. He was. and when he had Clint back beside him, it would all be all right.

"Stark, what can you tell us about the technology?"

"It was all generic Hammer crap." Tony waved a hand dismissively. "Whoever it is must really hate or really fear me. Either that, or they're a complete idiot."

"Hmm. One of the men we questioned said something along those lines." Coulson frowned. "He also said... well, it's become imperative that we find Clint as soon as possible. One of the goons told us that Clint was in the hands of an expert in taking people apart."

There was a long pause following that.

"Fuck," Steve said, and everyone turned to stare at him. He rarely swore, even though he was nowhere near as naive as most people thought. "That's... that's not good. I saw some of those sorts, back in the war."

"Yeah," Natasha added. "I have some experience with these types as well."

"All it means is we have to hurry. I thought we were already hurrying," Bruce replied. "We were always trying our hardest to find him, and we'll continue to try our hardest."

And this was why Phil liked Bruce. He was an oasis of calm and zen right when you needed him. also, he was secretly funny, but that wasn't exactly relevant to the current situation.

"Let's start from the top. What do we have?"Steve asked.

"We know they took Clint on purpose, partly because he is widely seen as the weak link. We know they wanted us to believe he's dead, but the way they went about that was so clumsy that there was no way they could have thought we'd fall for it for long. We know that they either hate or fear Stark, or are a total idiot," Natasha reeled off, then stared hard at the screen. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out for a second. She finally spoke again, slowly. "We know that Clint spent most of the week prior to his disappearance with Stark, which was a break from his routine."

"That's true." Stark frowned. "Normally I see once or twice a week outside of team meals and SHIELD. This week we went to that ball game, he tagged along to a visit to one of the orphanages the Maria Stark Foundation supports, he had to go with me as back up to that board meeting after that threat came through..." he trailed off. "And I can think of a couple of more times too."

"He came with both of us to go and fetch that special brand of tea I wanted," Bruce offered.

"So, to sum up," Steve said. "An idiot who either hates or fears Stark, who has enough money to employ a large band of goons and an expert in torture, who took Clint because he saw him as a weak link, or as someone who was close to Tony."

"An idiot who hates and fears me..." Tony said, sitting up suddenly. Natasha made a noise in her throat and lifted an eyebrow.

"I thought he was in jail," she said.

"He is. But his butler got out a month ago. If he was as loyal as he seemed to be..."

"Yeah. it makes sense."

"What makes sense?" Phil asked, although he had a suspicion.

"Hammer," Tony said. "It has to be. I should have known from the tech. Only Hammer would trust his tech over mine for something as important as this."

They had a name. It was a start.

* * *

Clint was fed and watered and wrapped in towels in his little cage. He drifted in and out for a while. Everything ached. But mostly, his groin ached. They hadn't actually shocked his dick, which thank God for small mercies, but they'd put the jump lead on the crease of his left thigh. Then they'd done the same on his right leg. It hurt. It hurt as much as the glowing coal in his mouth hurt, but this pain was more real, more personal.

He curled inwards, his body shielding his delicate privates.

He wasn't expecting it when the door to the room opened. His time sense was still screwy but he was pretty sure it had only been an hour, give or take, since he'd been left alone. He dragged his head up to look the Head Henchman in the eye.

"What do you want?"

"I just wanted to make sure you understood your situation. There seemed to be some doubt earlier about whether or not I was telling the truth about your team. I have something here that might help with that." He tapped a stack of photos against his palm. "Open the top."

One of the guards leaned over and pulled open the cage. The Head Henchman dropped the pictures down onto Clint.

"There. You just relax, take your time, and have a good look at those. I'll be back in a few hours to see what you think."

The lid to the cage close with a loud clang as the Head Henchman walked away. he didn't turn back. Clint waited till he was out the door before he picked up one of the pictures and looked at it.

It was a picture of his uniform, and it was covered in blood.

The next picture showed a bloodstained dumpsite by the river.

Then, the team. Tony, pale and serious for once. Steve, his clenched hands in a tell that Clint knew well, it meant that he was repressing righteous fury. Bruce, self contained, his shoulders hunched, his eyes greener than usual. Natasha, arms wrapped around her chest in a self hug. He hadn't seen her do that in years. And... Oh God. Phil was white as a sheet and he wasn't looking at the bloody remains. He looked broken.

Clint closed his eyes for a long moment.

They... they couldn't believe it. They couldn't. He wouldn't believe it. He couldn't believe it. He _had_ to believe that his team was coming for him, that Phil was coming for him. If he didn't believe that, then he was already broken.

They'd run a DNA test. They'd figure it out. Clint just hoped it wouldn't be too late.

* * *

**Warnings:**

**Torture, psychological and electrical. Mental health issues. Some of the torture is to Clint's groin area, not on his actual genitals, but close enough that it may be upsetting. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes:** **I am so sorry you guys! The last couple of weeks have been pretty hectic. But, look, a shiny new update for you! And it's a longer chapter to make up for the brief hiatus.** **See end as always for warnings.**

* * *

Phil's fingers tapped against his leg. Clint's name, over and over. He was riding in the back of Tony's car, Tony next to him and Happy in the front. Coulson had called in every favour he was owed and offered a few of his own to get them a special pass interview Justin Hammer, despite the late hour. Phil stared out of the window, and watched the darkness flow past.

Tony kept looking at him as they drove up to the prison where Hammer was being held. Phil wasn't sure whether Tony knew he'd noticed or not. He decided to make it easy on him.

"Was there something you wanted?" He didn't look up from Hammer's file. Stark spluttered for a second and then laughed a little.

"Sorry. I know I was staring."

"Yes. You were."

"OCD?"

Trust Tony to just come out and ask.

"Yes."

"Does Barton know?"

"Yes. He's known for about a month."

"How bad is it?"

"It's..." Phil sighed and turned the page in the file, resolutely not looking at Tony. "It's not as good as it could be. I was pretty much asymptomatic before Loki killed me. I needed some routine, but I was coping. Then I died."

"Yeah, well, dying will really screw up your routine."

"Yeah. it will. Since then, I've been having problems. I was just getting under control..."

"When things got messed up again." Phil saw Tony nod out of the corner of his eye and assumed that was the end of it. For a moment, silence fell and it seemed like Phil was right. Then Tony opened his mouth again. "My Dad, he was... he had OCD. He wasn't diagnosed, with anything that specific. And he refused to take anti anxiety pills, he self medicated with whisky instead, but everything had to perfect. His lab was so clean, it was ridiculous. I mean, science is supposed to be messy, but his lab was always spotless. He was the only person I ever met who could work on an engine in a white button down and not get covered in oil."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no. I just... he was an asshole, my dad. But I'm trying to say that I get it. Or at least that I have some... experience. If, you know, you wanted to, whatever."

"Stark, are you offering to be a shoulder to cry on?"

"No! God no! No chick flick moments, dude. Besides, that's what Barton's for. I'm just saying if you need or want anything different, any considerations about the tower, you just have to ask."

"Thanks Tony." Phil was surprised at how raw and open Tony had been with him. He knew the man had to be sincere, and he felt... accepted. Which he hadn't been expecting. He'd spent most of his life hiding this part of himself; it was a shock to see it being taken so well.

They rode in silence the rest of the way.

* * *

Clint had dozed uneasily. He wasn't sure what time it was, but it felt late. He was pretty sure it was night time, although he wasn't sure why he thought that. His muscles all ached, but that pain was dwarfed by the pain in his burns and the needle marks under his nails. He just felt tired. He wanted to sleep, long and deep, and wake up in SHIELD Medical, with Coulson by his bed. He smiled humourlessly. It was the first time he'd ever wished to _go_ to medical. Usually he was wishing for a way to avoid it.

The door to the basement room opened and in walked the Head Henchman.

"Awake, are we?" he said, moving to stand in front of the cage. "Get him out."

The guards lifted him out on cue, their touch stern and impersonal. It was getting boring.

"This is getting boring," he said out loud, smirking at the Head Henchman. And really, it was. He was ready to go home now. He was sick of the cage, sick of the pain, sick of the Head Henchman's smug face. He wanted to be rescued, break out of medical and curl up with Phil on their couch. He wanted Phil's fingers in his hair, Phil's voice in his ear. He wanted this to be over.

"That's why we're going to try something different. I do so hate being predictable." He smiled but his eyes stayed cold and hard. Clint shivered. The guards, with no further prompting, disconnected the chain that connected his wrists to his ankles. Clint immediately began to struggle. He whipped his hands up and connected with the jaw of one of the guards. The other three didn't give him chance to take advantage though; they descended on him, pressing him down to the floor. One of them pushed down onto one of his burns and he yelled. Bile came up his throat and he coughed, spitting it down onto the concrete. He hurt.

"Now, Clint," the Head Henchman said, shaking his head. He leaned down to run a hand through Clint's hair. "Where do you think you are going? Do you really think that myself or my dear friends here would let you get anywhere near the door? Really? We removed the connection between your wrists and ankles because you are _no threat._" He tightened his fingers and tugged hard at Clint's hair, then let go. "String him up."

They dragged his hands up towards the ceiling and padlocked them to a beam above his head. The chain between his ankles was attached to a ring on the floor. His whole body was stretched out. It hurt after so long bent up in a ball. He could just about stand up, if he perched on his tiptoes. He resigned himself to the idea of dislocated shoulders, when his strength gave out. But not yet though. For now, he balanced on his toes and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and centring himself. He could do this. His muscles screamed at him, protesting the stretch, but he ignored the pain and just tried to get his feet as solidly on the floor as he could. It took him a minute to get the balance right, to stop wobbling from side to side. The manacles dug into the skin around his wrists, but that was a small pain, laughable compared with everything else he'd been through lately. When his stance was as solid as he could get it, he opened his eyes. The Head Henchman was directly in front of him. He was sitting in an armchair, his fingers folded in his lap. He smiled when he noticed Clint's eyes were open.

"There you are, Clint. How are you feeling? Do you ache?"

"Fuck you," Clint ground out. Head Henchman stood up and took a step towards Clint, his hand reaching out. He ran his fingers lightly across Clint's ribs and began walking slowly in a circle around him, his fingers following his steps. It felt strangely intimate, even though it was just touching, and all above the waist. Maybe because it was the first gentle touch he'd had in... he wasn't sure how long. Or maybe it was the contrast. His body had become used to pain, and that made this gentleness all the more potent.

"You've suffered so much, my boy. And you know by now they aren't coming for you. That they believe you to be dead." He came to a halt in front of Clint, his hand resting warm and solid of Clint's hip. "It would be in your best interests to co-operate. They won't care that you betrayed them. in fact, they'll never know it was you who talked. How could you? You're dead after all."

"No." He wasn't just thinking of his team. He was thinking of all the Stark Industries employees who worked in the tower, and the non-combatants like Pepper, Darcy, Jane. He had no idea what the Head Henchman and his Boss wanted the codes for, but he knew it could be nothing good. His friends might think he was dead, he couldn't know for sure that they were coming for him. He had no control over that. But, he could control what he said. And he wasn't going to say anything that might put his team, his people, in danger.

"Very well," he sat back down in the arm chair and waved a hand in a lazy gesture to the guards. One of them stepped forward and punched Clint in the kidneys. Hard. Several more blows followed, bruises forming up and down his torso. He kept losing his footing and having to scramble to get solid ground under his toes. Every blow pulled at his shoulders and made fresh blood bloom at his wrists. It was strange, it was the least intense pain he'd been forced to endure the whole time he was here, and yet he felt more vulnerable than he had before. Probably due to the way his body was stretched out. Before, he could curl into himself, try and protect what needs protecting. But now, everything was on display, he couldn't even move.

The beating lasted what felt like forever. Longer than most of the punishments. They switched from hands to thick pieces of wood after a while. They felt to Clint like broom handles, and reminded him of his childhood. He was pretty sure he had a few broken ribs before they were done with those. After that, one of them grabbed an honest to God whip from the table. Clint's whole body shuddered as he approached with it. He'd been whipped a few times before. He'd live through it, but it wasn't the most pleasant experience.

"Wait," the Head Henchman said. He'd been watching proceedings closely from the comfort of his armchair. Clint looked over at him as he spoke and noticed that he'd got a china cup of tea from somewhere, and a plate of biscuits. He rolled his eyes. "Clint, do you have anything to say?"

"Not to you."

"Very well. Proceed." He waved his hand and then took a sip of his tea, shifting in his chair to make himself comfortable.

The whip cracked. Clint screamed. He'd promised himself he wouldn't, but he couldn't help it. Whips had always been one of his worst things. And being unable to pull away, to hide, was worse.

The whip came down again. And again. And again. Clint's whole body went limp. The whip didn't stop. He jerked with each hit and the weight of his body pulled his left shoulder from its socket as he wrenched aside to try and escape the lash.

"Enough." Head Henchman put his cup down and stood up. He waved the guards away, and stood in front of Clint. He reached forward and cupped Clint's chin in his hand. Clint didn't have the energy to pull away. "Look at yourself. Look at what you've put yourself through. And for what? For who? Your friends aren't coming. They don't care about you. You're disposable. A sad little boy with a bow. You're a dime a dozen, Barton. Replaceable. Not like the others. They're all special. You're just filling in the extra space." His fingers tightened on Clint's chin, and his other hand came up to stroke through Clint's hair. "Why do you endure so much for them? For people who take you so muc for granted? For Stark?"

Clint murmured something, but it was difficult to make out. The only words Head Henchman could hear were 'Coulson' and 'Please'. He sighed.

"Leave him strung up. I'll be back in an hour to treat his wounds and bring him down."

* * *

"Anthony!" Hammer smirked. He looked thinner, more diminished, in his prison orange. His hands were cuffed in front of him on the table.

"Justin." Tony sat down opposite him, and Coulson did likewise. "This is Agent Coulson."

"Charmed, I'm sure. Any friend of Anthony's is a friend of mine." He grinned smarmily. He wasn't wearing his glasses, Coulson noted. He wondered if the guards considered him a danger to himself or others.

"We have some questions for you, Mr Hammer."

"Of course, of course. But first, the formalities. How are you, Anthony? Well I hope. And the lovely Virginia?"

"I'm fine. Pepper's fine too."

"Good, good. I was beginning to think you weren't going to visit me. After all the years we've been friends."

"We aren't friends, Hammer. You tried to kill me."

"Frenimies then. And I never tried to kill you. That crazy Russian I hired tried to kill you. We have a friendly rivalry thing going on. We have since we were teenagers."

"Oh, is that what we have?"

"Of course. I never wanted you dead. I wanted you defeated."

"Of course."

"Do you know anything about Hawkeye going missing?"

"Hawkeye?" He tilted his head, thinking. "That little sniper you've been spending so much time with?"

"How do you know who I've been spending time with?"

"My dear Edward keeps me informed."

"Edward? You're butler?" Tony snorted.

"Yes, he visits me every Thursday. He takes care of everything I can't from in here."

"So what do you know about Hawkeye going missing?"

"Oh, nothing, of course." He waved a hand as though pushing the idea he could be involved away. "Why would I bother with the little sniper? He's nobody."

Phil's hands clenched into fists and he took a deep breath.

"Are you sure you have no information?" he asked.

"I'm sure. I barely took notice of the little bird. I may have mentioned to Edward how strange it seemed for a man like Anthony to spend so much time with someone like him, but a lot of the people Anthony considers suitable friends or sexual partners, I find strange." He shrugged, and his chains rattled.

"Well, Clint is missing. And we have reason to believe that you are involved."

"Clint, is it?" He smiled. "And what exactly is this evidence?"

"They were using Hammer Tech."

"My company is one of the largest suppliers of military and spy technology in the world. Try again."

"They seem to hate Tony," Phil offered.

"Who doesn't?"

"They must be rich, to hire as many people as they have."

"Many people are rich." Hammer waved a hand again, his chains clinking. "Besides, what could I do from in here?"

Tony and Phil exchanged a look. They'd been so sure. But now they were talking to Hammer, their evidence did seem weak. Besides, Hammer seemed so happy to have the attention.

They asked him a few more questions, but it soon became clear that they were getting nowhere. They decided to head back to the tower and think some more.

* * *

Clint held on. He held on and waited. Coulson was coming, he knew. He could feel the lines of fire on his back where the whip had hit and the itchiness of slowly drying blood on his lower back and upper thighs. His breathing was slow and difficult, the broken ribs pressing in. his shoulder screamed at even the slightest motion. But he held on. He had to. Coulson was coming.

* * *

**Notes:** **WARNINGS: OCD and mental health issues, of course. Emotions, lots of them. Torture including suspension, beating, whips. The dreaded comfy chair.** **The reference to Howard as having OCD was inspired by a fic I read a while ago but I can't for the life of me remember where or when I read it. :/ any help in crediting would be much appreciated.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey look! You're waiting weeks for a chapter, then two come along at once! Sorry again for the long wait. Hope this makes up for it!  
As always, see end for warnings.**

* * *

Clint hurt. He hung limp from his wrists, his left shoulder screaming at the slightest movement. His back burned, the lashes of the whip had left lines of fire on his skin.

_Please. Coulson, please. I need you._

Clint wasn't sure how long he'd been in the basement of pain, but he knew it had been too long. He wasn't sure what he was going to do if it turned out that Phil really thought he was dead. What could he do? He had no weapons, no clothes, no lock picks. He couldn't even fight back. If Coulson wasn't coming, then all he could do was hang there and wait for the end.

The door opened and the Head Henchman came in. He had a large first aid kit in his right hand and a tray with a bowl, a cup and a plate on it. The tray went on the table, the kit on the comfy chair.

"Let him down."

The weight was suddenly gone from his wrists and he slumped forward. The Head Henchman was there to catch him before he could fall forwards. He was careful not to press on any of Clint's wounds. He moved the first aid kit and sat Clint down in the chair, leaning him forward so his back wouldn't be pressed against the cushions. One of the guards brought over a bowl full of warm water and a cloth. Head Henchman slowly cleaned the blood from Clint's back. Barton didn't have the energy to do more than whimper.

"Shush, easy now." The water was followed by iodine, and Clint hissed at the sting, and then gauze and bandages. He was carefully lifted so he was sitting up straight and more bandages followed wrapping his ribs tightly. He whimpered again. "I know, I know it hurts. But it's for your own good." He wiped the sweat from Clint's forehead. He nodded and two of the guards came forward. They held Clint tightly and there was a jerk and a moment of crystalline pain and then his shoulder was reseated in its socket.

"There now. Isn't that better?" he stroked Clint's hair. "I can take care of your wrists and ankles too if you promise not to fight. It wouldn't do you any good any way. I'm only trying to help you." After a moment, Clint sighed and nodded. The shackles on his wrists were removed, but all four of the guards had stepped in close. What could he do? "I only want what's best for you, you know that, don't you? Your friends, they've left you here. They don't want you. You're nothing. Nobody. To them, anyway. But you're much stronger than I ever would have thought. You could do so much. A man like you could do wonders with someone who knew how to care for you. And I can't fault you for your loyalty, as irritating as it is." He tied a knot in the bandage he'd wrapped around Clint's left wrist and reached for his right one. "I just think that you're maybe giving your loyalty to those who don't deserve it. They aren't looking for you. I'd imagine you've already been replaced. My employer, if he had an asset of your calibre under his wing, he'd never let you go. He'd take such good care of you."

One of the guards reached across to the table and picked up a set of padded restraints. These were placed gently, but securely, over the bandages. His ankles received the same treatment. The Head Henchman helped him to his feet and rearranged them so they were sharing the chair, Clint leaning heavily back against the Henchman's chest.

"Bring me the tray," he ordered.

He took the cup first, pressing it against Clint's mouth. Fruit juice rushed in, sweet and quenching. Clint took a moment to be thankful it wasn't orange juice or anything else acidic that would make the large burn on his tongue hurt even more. He thought it might be pomegranate maybe or melon, something light and exotic. He took a few sips and then it was pulled away. A grape followed, then a morsel of cheese. He was being hand fed by the guy who'd been torturing him for... hours? Days? Weeks? He wasn't sure. The situation was more than a little strange. Chicken soup followed, hot and fresh with long thin noodles.

"Is that better?" Clint shrugged with his right shoulder, careful not to move the left. "Oh, of course. One second." A pair of dry pills were pressed to Clint's mouth. He pulled his lips tightly together, the only form of defiance he could manage. He felt so weak. The Head Henchman had said he'd only leave him hanging for an hour, but Clint would swear it had been at least three or four since he'd been whipped.

"Really, Clint. What are you trying to prove? Refusing pain medication helps no one. It only makes you look daft. Come on, it will help." Clint still refused to open his mouth. A single motion to the guards and suddenly Clint's jaws were being pried apart and the pills forced in. He struggled as much as he could, but he knew it must have been a pretty pathetic attempt. Juice followed and he had to swallow. "There. That will make you feel much better. I'm only trying to help."

Clint let himself go limp. He was right. What was the point in struggling? He wasn't getting anywhere. His only chance was if his team came for him. but he wasn't so sure that was going to happen.

_It's not like I have real superpowers. I'm good at shooting things with an outdated tool, go me. Rogers will probably be glad to be rid of me and I know I make Thor uncomfortable. I'm at least half the reason he spends so much time in Asgard. Okay, so Tony's my Bro and Natasha... is Natasha. They might look for me. But Tony's busy with his company. And Natasha's probably finally given up on me. Phil... Phil. Hurry._

The guards carried him over to his cage _(hey, when did he start thinking of the cage as 'his'?)_ and lowered him in. while he was out of it, hanging around, the floor of the cage had been padded with a thin mattress, as well as several cushions and a thick blanket. It was...comfortable. the lid swung shut and he felt strangely safe. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

* * *

Everyone was talking at once. Well, no, not everyone. Agent Coulson was staring off into the distance. But everyone else was talking at once. Everyone had their own theories and ideas. No one wanted to listen to anyone else. They were all too worried about Clint, and that made them impatient. _I don't have time to listen to anyone else, the longer it takes for everyone to agree my idea is the best is longer that Clint is being tortured._ The discussion had actually started off quite reasonable and organised, but had slowly gotten more and more out of hand.

Phil paid them no mind. He knew they were worried. He understood that they needed to be doing something, and arguing with each other was better than sitting around doing nothing. But he just needed to think... there was something...

"Quiet!" he said, and silence fell. "Stark, what did you just say?"

"I said, 'it can't be Hammer, he only knew about me and Clint hanging out because his butler was reporting back. He has no access to computers, only one phone call a week, he's in solitary confinement. There's no way it's him,'" Tony quoted himself, then narrowed his eyes at Phil. "Unless you've figured something out."

"No. It's not Hammer," Phil said, his tone one of dawning realisation. He kind of wished Clint was here just for this moment, because he was about to say something pretty awesome. "The Butler. The Butler did it."

There was a moment of silence while everyone stared at Phil, then Tony began to laugh. Even the corner of Bruce's mouth was twitching.

"Did you..." Natasha said, and she shook her head as though dislodging water from her ears. "Did you just say..?"

"Yes. Yes I did. Think about it. The Butler was fiercely loyal, he visits Hammer every week and calls once a week as well. Hammer put him in charge of his finances. He probably inherited Hammer's hate of you as well. The organisation certainly suggests someone like," he glanced at the file before him, "Edward Jenkins being behind it, rather than Hammer himself. Jarvis, get in contact with SHIELD. I need a list of Edward Jenkins' most recent financial transactions and his cell phone history as well."

"You seem really sure about this," Steve frowned.

"Our hunch about Hammer was sound. And this... this just feels right. It makes sense, I know it does, I just haven't had chance to see all the angles yet."

"Phil's right. I was sure I'd heard that name before." Bruce held up his Stark Tab. "I just googled him. Tony do you remember getting hate mail from him after Hammer was arrested? Pepper mentioned it a week or so ago because he'd been interviewed."

"That's... I forgot completely about that. Or, I just didn't link that Edward to 'Edward the Butler'." He frowned. "He got an interview in some tabloid and went on about how I'd stolen designs from Hammer Industries and framed Justin to shift the blame. But I don't get it. Why would he go for Clint when he could have just gone for me?"

"That bit, I get," Natasha said. "You and Clint have been spending a lot of time together. You probably spend more time outside the tower with him that with anyone else, except maybe Pepper. They see him as your weak spot. Breaking you would probably not be as fun for them as breaking your friend and making you watch. Not to mention the fact that you've been tortured before and you said publicly after the attack on New York that you only fought because, and I quote: 'the aliens had killed your Agent.' Remember?"

"Yeah." Tony cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

"JARVIS, get me footage of that," Phil said. He felt strangely light, almost giddy. They were on the right track now, he was sure. He was going to find Clint.

* * *

Clint was waiting. He could wait forever. He had his blanket, and his pillows. He was waiting. It wouldn't be long now..._ please let it not be long now._

_Coulson... please be coming..._

* * *

**Warnings: Mental health issues, non-consensual drug use, angst. Killing with kindness. Low self esteem issues. Actually, it's a pretty soft chapter, nothing to worry about. :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**Shout out goes to lunarweather for this chapter, and all that follows. We've been messaging back and forth and it really helped get the story straightened out in my head for the next couple of chapters. You're awesome! Couldn't have done it without you!**  
**As always see end for warnings.**

* * *

Clint woke up. He was curled up in a ball around his recently dislocated arm. The manacles that had been removed were replaced with softly padded restraints that didn't press too heavily on his battered wrists and ankles. The chain connecting his arms to his legs was longer, allowing more freedom of movement. He gathered all this as he lay in his nest of blankets and pillows, his eyes still closed.

He opened his eyes and froze. It was black as pitch. He literally couldn't see his hand in front of his face.

"Hello? Are you there?" There was no answer. He tried to sit up and his head hit the roof of the cage. Okay. Still there. He was still in his box. That was... was that good? "Hey, come on. Who turned out the lights?" His head hurt, and he felt vaguely fuzzy. _Must be the painkillers, _he thought. "Hello? Come on, this isn't funny. Guards one through four, are you even there? If you aren't there, I'm just going to escape-"

"NOW!"

Noise. Loud. Discordant.

Clint pressed his hands to his ears, trying to keep the sounds out. His shoulder twinged as he moved his arms. This was... this was wrong. He was... this was his cage. His cage. The cage, if not safe, was at least supposed to be for waiting and healing rather than active pain.

Loud. It was too loud. It wasn't music or song or anything with any sort of pattern. That he could cope with. This was just random noises overlapping and getting louder and softer with no rhyme or reason, it just wouldn't stop, pounding into his head and it was too loud.

Then they turned the lights on.

Not the regular lights that had been on in the basement for as long as he'd been there, but massive spotlights glaring at him. He closed his eyes and turned his face away. He couldn't see anything outside the circle of the lights. The noises died down and the sudden silence was jarring. Clint buried his face in his blanket and pillow nest. He wasn't sure what was going on. In the quick quiet, he could hear footsteps; whispering. Was that his name?

"Who's there?"

As soon as he asked the question, the noises began again, clattering against his ears.

He took a long, deep breath. He had to calm down. He had to keep control. He started counting each breath, three in, three out. He was fine. It was just light and sound. Just light and sound. Just external input. He could cope with this. He was a sniper. He could block out anything that interfered with the shot. He could do this.

He just had to wait it out.

Coulson was coming.

* * *

Coulson was waiting. Not very patiently. They'd been trying to track down Edward Jenkins for hours now. No one seemed to know his current address or anything else about him. They'd also had to take a break to eat (at 18:30 precisely) and to sleep (although they all woke each other up yelling or thrashing), and now they were in the third day of Clint being missing.

Was it really the third day? Coulson frowned. Yes. It was. He'd gone missing in the morning. They hadn't realised till the afternoon. Then Fury had made them eat dinner and get some rest, after they'd talked to the goon they'd snagged. They'd slept the sleep of the exhausted and met early in the conference room to go over Clint's movements. That was day two. Which made this day three.

"JARVIS?"

"Yes, Agent. Here is the list you requested."

"Hmm." Coulson frowned the display. He'd asked JARVIS to get him a list of any properties that Edward Jenkins was listed on as owner or as tenant. The list was only three items long and only one of them was in New York City. "That's an apartment, there's no way he's got Clint in there. Look for recent purchases by Hammer Industries instead. He's had financial control over it since Justin was arrested."

"Of course sir, compiling now."

A hand gently cam down on his. He hadn't realised his fingers were tapping again.

"We'll find him. We're almost there."

"I know." Phil nodded, and didn't look at Steve. "I know."

"The tapping, is that part of..."

"Yes. I don't even realise I'm doing it."

"It's his name."

"I know."

"Agent Coulson? I have that list for you."

"Thank you JARVIS. Up on the displays?"

"Certainly."

This list was far more expensive. In just the few years that Hammer had been imprisoned there were dozens, if not hundreds of building transactions.

"Damn it. This is going to take ages to sort through," Tony scowled.

"Then we'd better get started," Steve replied, and clapped his hands together.

* * *

Clint was lying on his right side, his pillow pushed against his ears, rocking slightly. Loud. It was so loud. And it was dark again. He couldn't figure out the pattern. Loud then quiet, quiet then loud, dark then light. There was no regularity to it, no specific timing. It was completely random. He couldn't... it wasn't...

He was in the cage. He was supposed to be safe in the cage.

How long had the confusion been going on? He'd counted his breaths for as long as he could, but he'd lost track somewhere in the thousands. He knew from that it had been hours and hours though. Where was the Head Henchman? He was supposed to... supposed to... Clint didn't understand.

He needed out. He needed out now. He threw himself against the sides of the cage, his hands battering at the metal. It wouldn't give. Of course it wouldn't give. The noises stopped all at once, and Clint's breathing was loud and harsh in the sudden silence. There was a patch of wet against his knee. He'd disturbed his water dish in his thrashing. He picked it up and sipped at what was left. It was cold and clear, but had a slightly metallic or chemical taste that seemed common to tap water in New York. When he got out of here the first thing he was going to do was drink a big glass of ice cold coke and eat a burger.

After he hugged Coulson, of course.

He was so tired. Why was he so tired? He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. But every time it was dark and quiet, every time he tried to sleep the noise and lights came back. He just wanted to sleep.

He needed to get out of here. He needed a coke. And a hug.

The roof. It was the roof that opened he had to get out the roof.

He clawed at the edged where the lid joined the walls of his cage, his nails breaking off easily as he scrabbled against the metal. There were three padlocks securing each side. But he would get it open. He had to.

Coulson hadn't come.

* * *

"We're going round in circles." Natasha didn't sound angry. She didn't sound upset. Her voice was totally level. Coulson knew that that was a sign that she was really upset. Usually this was when he or Clint would go to her, put a hand on her shoulder, press their knees to hers under the table. But he couldn't do that. He thought that if anyone touched him kindly right then, he'd fall to pieces. Because Natasha was right. They'd been looking through these files for almost 2 hours and they were still no closer to finding the answer. Clint was still lost.

"There's too much choice. There's a dozen warehouses, a couple of shipping yards, a storage unit. Any of those would be suitable to torture someone in," Bruce said, then winced at his own words.

"So we split it up." Coulson got out his Stark Phone. "JARVIS, give me the list of the most likely locations in ascending order. We'll pick our favourite and I'll get Nick to send agents to the others."

"What if we pick wrong?" Natasha asked.

"Then there will be agents there to pick up our slack." But he understood what Nat was saying. He wanted to be there to find Clint, to hold him, to put his hand against his chest and feel that he was breathing.

"What if he's dead?" Natasha asked, in exactly the same tone of voice. Because she had to ask the hard questions. She needed to hear the answers.

"Then we might not save him. But we'll damn well avenge him," Coulson told her.

* * *

Clint's hands were bleeding. The light was gone and the noises were back. He just wanted it to stop. The lid wouldn't open. And no one would come. He'd shouted and shouted, but no one had come.

He threw himself up against the roof. His head hit it at a funny angle and the bars cut into his scalp. It was a shock, the pain sharp in contrast to all his other aches. His hands came up to tentatively press against it.

"Ow," he said. His voice was low and hoarse. "Ow." It wavered slightly. "Ow." Big fat tears began to roll down his face. He was so tired. And he_hurt._ He just wanted it to stop. Please could it just stop now. Where were the others? Why hadn't they come? He'd been here for _days..._

They'd forgotten him. Or abandoned him. Or... maybe they thought he was dead. Maybe they were looking but...

He wasn't getting out of this. He was stuck. Trapped. His _head..._ concussion maybe, but he'd been fuzzy before he'd hit his head.

Why had nobody come?

* * *

Seventeen lots of agents and one team of Avengers all arrived simultaneously at locations around the city.

The Avengers themselves had chosen an old, long abandoned grocery store that had been bought by Hammer Industries only about eight weeks ago. The rumour was that they were planning on converting it to storage space, but that it had been tied up in rezoning issues. It made sense. It had to be the right place. Had to be.

The fact that there were guards outside cemented it in Coulson's head. Clint had to be in there.

"I'll stay here," Banner said. "I doubt I'll be much use in there. And this way I'll be ready for him when you bring him out." He held up the paramedic grade first aid kit. "Go get him."

They turned and headed for the building, fanning out. They'd brought a couple of extra SHIELD agents as back-up; Barbara Morse, Sam Wilson and Sharon Carter. Sitwell and Hill had both offered to be there as well, but Coulson had insisted they each head one of the other teams. He knew that they'd try their best for Clint, and he trusted them to take good care of him if they found him.

"Take up your positions." They split into two groups, Bobbi Morse leading her team around the back of the building and Steve leading the Avengers towards the front door. Coulson stayed at the back of the group, his gun out and ready. He was surprised that no one had tried to make him stay out of it. Maybe they all just knew how much he needed to be there.

And he did need to be there. He needed to be there for Clint. He was going to find him. He was. He was coming.

He was coming for him.

* * *

WARNINGS: seriously messed up Clint. I take away the safety of his cage and he freaks out a bit. All wounds he suffers in this chapter are self inflicted. (He doesn't cut himself or anything, but... you'll see.) Some of what Clint is thinking could be linked to suicidal thoughts, so be careful.


	10. Chapter 10

**Big hugs and thanks to Lunarweather and Shazrolane! Lunarweather has been instrumental in the writing of the chapter, and Shazrolane gave me the idea for a really awesome bit of dialogue. Couldn't have done it without them.** **Also, this feels like a natural ending to this part of the story. I'm definitely going to write the aftermath, but it feels like it should go into a different story. Opinions very welcome on this though. :)** **See end for warnings.**

* * *

The noise faded away, the spotlights disappeared. The normal light came on and Clint blew out a long wavering breath. He could see the guards moving the lights away from the cage, and there was the Head Henchman, standing in front of the cage. Had they been there this whole time, just watching him freak out?

"Clint," he said. "What have you done to yourself?" He motioned to the guards and they opened the cage (just like that, so easy) and they lifted him out, so carefully, to lay him before the Head Henchman's feet.

The first aid kit made another appearance, and the Head Henchman dropped to his knees so he could wrap his arms around Clint. Barton tried not to lean into the warmth, but he was so tired. And he was so gentle.

"Oh, you've really done a number on your head. What were you thinking?"

"'m sorry..."

"It's okay. Let me have a look at those hands." He hadn't treated the wound on his head, just pressed on it and swiped at some of the blood. Clint was manipulated so he was sitting with his back pressed to the Head Henchman's chest. He held his hands out in front of him. The new softer cuffs gave him a greater range of movement. He shouldn't appreciate that as much as he did. He could stand up straight if he wanted to. He could maybe fight back. But he didn't. The Head Henchman cupped Clint's hands in his own and tutted at the damage.

"You really shouldn't have done this to yourself, Clint. What am I going to do with you?" He cradled Clint closer, and stroked a hand through his hair.

* * *

The Avengers and their friends from SHIELD (all volunteers who knew Clint well) slowly entered the building. The grocery store had been abandoned for close to ten years before Hammer Industries had bought it, but it was still full of decaying shelves, covered in vines and grime. The store was dark and quiet, but as they got closer to the back of the store, they could hear the sound of a fight.

"The office near the back door!" Morse's voice came through their ear pieces. Cap nodded, and they charged over there. It was already over. Four guards were sitting on the ground, two unconscious and two bound with zip strips looking furious. Coulson took a long look at them. He was... he was _angry._ He holstered his gun and took a step back before he did something he would regret.

"Coulson!" Wilson called, his voice strained. He was inside the small office, and the rest of them crowded in after him. It was a tight fit. The room was being used as a sort of surveillance office. One wall was entirely covered by television screens, all linked to a computer. There were screens that showed the back entrance and screens that showed the front entrance, but the overturned table along with the cards and money scattered across the floor explained why the goons hadn't reacted to their arrival. The other screens... there was a man. He was wearing a suit, complete with tie and matching pocket square. He was sitting on the ground and he had Clint. He had Clint in his arms and Clint was naked, bound and bleeding. He was also leaning into his captor's embrace.

A noise escaped Phil. He wasn't sure whether to describe it as a moan or a whimper. He put his lower lip between his teeth and bit down until he tasted copper.

"Looks like a basement," Tasha said, her voice level and even.

"I saw a door labelled staff only," Sharon Carter offered. "I bet it leads to that basement."

"Wait," Iron Man said, "let me check their system first. Make sure there's no alarms or anything." He began typing on the keyboard, and after about a minute, maybe less, there was a squealing noise from the computer and sparks flew from the modem. "Whoa!"

"What happened?" Cap demanded.

"Looks like they had safeguards..." he shook his head. "Sorry, I should have checked that first. But I did see that there are no alarms around the basement." Then he turned to look straight in Phil's eyes. "I guess that no one's ever going to see exactly what Clint went through." Phil thought he should probably tell Tony off, but instead he just inclined his head slightly in gratitude.

"Okay. Never mind that right now. Let's get down there and get Clint out." Captain America motioned Sharon ahead to lead the way.

"I'll stay up here, guard the captives and the way down," Wilson offered.

"Good," Steve said. "Phil, you hang at the back. I know that you're going to want to go straight for Clint, but you have to wait until it's safe."

"I know, Cap." Phil smiled as they all followed Sharon. "It's not the first rescue mission I've been on. It's not even the first time I've rescued Clint."

"I know that. I also know what he is to you. Remind me to tell you about the time I rescued Bucky from Hydra."

They reached the door.

* * *

Clint heard a noise. A noise that wasn't the racket from before, but wasn't a noise that fitted with what he had experienced in the basement. Head Henchman was already down here. The guards only changed when he was asleep. There shouldn't be a noise from the door.

"What was...?" Clint tried to ask, but trailed off as the Head Henchman shushed him. He was cleaning the blood off Clint's head.

"Go look," the Head Henchman snapped at the guards, and Clint flinched. He hated how disconnected he felt, how fuzzy. He was sure the noise was important... but the guards were going to look. They'd see what was going on. He settled back down.

He closed his eyes.

There was noise and chaos around him. Gunshots and violence and the meaty smack of fist meeting face. Someone had their hands on him, dragging him upright and an arm went across his throat.

He opened his eyes, and grabbed at the forearm, his fingers sore and bloody still from clawing at the cage. The still healing burns on his feet screamed at him, it was the first time he'd stood on his own two feet in days. Most of his weight was being supported by the man behind him, but it still took a lot of effort for him to stand there.

"Everybody stop! Stop or I'll slit his throat!" Everything froze, the chaos fading into stillness, silence. The guards were all down. There were people around... wait, was that Tasha? Tony? Steve?

They were all standing very, very still, why were they standing so still? He looked down at the arm across his throat, then glanced back over his shoulder to see who had a hold on him.

It was Head Henchman.

"What...?" a second ago he was being hugged and gentled and having his wounds treated and now he was being used as a human shield... he tried to pull away, but he honestly wasn't sure how he was still upright, he had that little energy.

"Clint, do not move." The voice was taught and oh so familiar.

* * *

"Coulson?" Phil closed his eyes briefly; Clint's voice was rough and quiet, but it was real. He was real.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Phil?"

"Yes, I'm here," and Coulson smiled, knowing how this went. He'd lost track of how many times he'd rescued Clint (except, no, he hadn't, he had an exact count in his head of all the times he's been there for Clint). In the past, he'd greeted Phil with his surname, then his first name, and then he'd say 'I knew you were coming'. It was a ritual for them. And Phil would say 'of course I came', and then it was all alright again.

"I thought you weren't coming."

Phil's heart froze in his chest and it felt like all the air had been pulled from the room. It felt almost like an asthma attack, and he had been having those since he'd woken up. Not often, but still... he forced himself to breathe evenly. Clint didn't know what he was saying. With a head wound like that, he was probably concussed. Clint had to know Phil would always come for him.

* * *

"You're going to let me out of here, and I'll give you your boy back."

Clint wasn't really sure what was happening. He'd fixed his eyes on Phil and was focussing more on Phil's uneven breathing than on anything else. Phil was there. He'd come. He'd come for Clint.

"Yeah. I don't think so," Steve said, and then nodded to something off to Clint and Head Henchman's left. They both turned their heads and... hey, how did Tasha get around to the side so fast? Clint was sure he'd seen here in front with the rest of the team. And why was she pointing her gun at him? He hadn't... he wasn't... and then the arm was gone from around his neck and he was falling forward down onto his knees and the shock of pain that caused wasn't nice, and then he was falling further, and he was going to face-plant on concrete and that was never fun...

And then Coulson finally had his arms around Barton.

"I've got you," he said.

"I'm here," he said.

"You're alright," he said.

And Clint tried very hard not to cry.

* * *

Clint's whole body was shaking in Phil's arms. His skin was cold to the touch, and Phil was getting blood on his suit.

"Hey, you're alright. You're alright." He raised his voice and called to Steve. "Can we get something for him to wear, maybe? He's shivering like mad."

"Blanket," Clint said, shifting to lean more heavily against Phil's side.

"Where?" Phil asked.

"In my cage."

"What?" He looked around, and he heard everyone gasp behind him as they followed his gaze to the small dog cage. And it was small. There was a blanket, a pillow, a food and water bowl, and blood splatters on the edges of the roof as well as on the blanket itself. Phil dragged in a sharp breath. They'd kept him in a cage like a dog.

"No," he said. "I don't think so." Before he'd even finished speaking, a repulsor blast shot past them and lit up the cage, burning the blankets and turning the metal white hot. Clint flinched. Phil turned and saw Tony, his faceplate up and his expression harsh, staring at what had used to be the cage. He was probably going to have to talk to (or possibly yell at) Stark at some point, but he couldn't find it in him to be annoyed. Especially since he completely agreed that the cage needed to be destroyed. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around Clint's shoulders.

"How bad?" Natasha asked, her hand gentle on Clint's arm. Clint still flinched away.

"What?" Clint asked. Phil wasn't sure which of them Tasha had been speaking to, but he was happy to let Clint answer her if he felt up to it.

"You're one giant contusion, and you're blood all over. How bad?"

"'m fine." He pulled away from Tasha and pressed his face into the join between Coulson's neck and shoulder.

"Come on," Phil said, "we need to get you up and out to the van. Bruce is waiting there and he has the good drugs."

Clint pulled back a little, and frowned.

"Drugs..." he said, his voice distant.

"Yeah, we're going to get you all fixed up." Steve took Clint's other side as Phil pulled him to his feet. Natasha had conjured a bolt cutter from somewhere and snipped through the padlocks keeping the restraints on Clint's wrists and ankles. He didn't move or acknowledge that they were gone, just let his head hang down.

Honestly? He was having difficulty believing this was real. His head hurt, and thinking was difficult, like wading through molasses. Coulson was here. He was actually here.

Clint was safe...

Wasn't he?

* * *

**WARNINGS: No torture, creepy HH, broken Clint and sad Phil. (Phil should never be sad, it's official). More angst than gore or anything, but Clint is definitely showing evidence of being mind-frelled.**


	11. Chapter 11

**This is now complete! The continuing adventures in the OCD verse, including the aftermath of what happened here, will be along shortly. The working title is 'The Best Laid Plans'.  
Yes, this epilogue is very short. It's just to round it off and set up for the next section though.  
Warnings at the end, as usual.**

* * *

Coulson held Clint's hand as Steve carried him to the van. The soles of his feet were badly burned, and he could barely stand. No one wanted him walking up the stairs, through the shop, and to the van.

Bruce was waiting there and his eyes flashed green when he saw the state Clint was in. He took a deep breath and motioned for them to lay Clint down on the stretcher that was waiting in the back of the van.

Clint wouldn't let go of Phil's hand.

* * *

He climbed in after him and perched on the edge of the bed while Natasha and Steve got in the front. Tony would get back to the tower under his own power. Coulson thought that was probably a good thing, as Tony seemed not to be coping as well as he liked to pretend.

Phil closed his eyes as Bruce started treating Clint. This was it. They had him back. What now?

How would Clint recover? True, he'd been tortured before, but usually as part of a mission, or with a deadline on how long before back up arrived. And he'd never been held by anyone who was a professional at breaking someone apart before.

There was a wetness at the corner of his eyes, and he swiped at it, angrily. He didn't have time for this. He had to get everything perfect for Clint. He started making a list in his head of everything he'd do to make things right.

Clean their quarters, top to bottom.

Make Clint his favourite pasta, with exactly the right amount of noodles.

Count every one of Clint's new injuries and show him they don't make a difference to how Phil feels.

He worried at his bottom lip. What if Clint didn't get better? What if his injuries were worse than they looked (and they looked pretty bad)? What if Clint didn't trust him anymore? He hadn't expected him to come. That's what got to Phil. That Clint honestly believed he was alone.

He rubbed at his chest briefly, fighting the tightness there. He wasn't sure if it was caused by panic, or if he should have taken his inhaler with him.

Things had to get better now. They were taking Clint home. That had to be better. Stark had an entire floor devoted to an infirmary, and this way they'd be close and they could make sure he was okay, and Phil could hold his hand and tell him how everything was fine now, and Clint _would _be fine, he had to be, Phil couldn't...

* * *

"Breathe, damn it." Bruce. That was Bruce. Had Clint stopped breathing? That was not good. "Come on, with me. Deep breath in, let it out slowly." Phil turned to look, but Clint's chest was moving regularly and he seemed to be comfortable enough.

"What...?" he said, or tried to say. It came out as barely a gasp.

"You're having a panic attack. I need to focus on Clint, so I need you to breathe, okay? Nice and slow. It's alright. He's alright. We got him out of there and he's going to be fine. Just breathe, okay?"

Phil dragged in a slow breath and closed his eyes. Stupid. He needed to be in control. He needed to breath. If he wasn't in control, how was he supposed to take care of Clint?

His fingers tapped against his leg.

He could do this. He was Phil Fucking Coulson. He was in control.

He needed a plan. Something to follow so he would know that things were okay.

_Get Clint back to the tower. Get him into the infirmary. Stay at his side for as long as he will let you. Put him back together, you were always good at puzzles. Piece by piece, get back what they took._

They had Clint. He was safe. That was all that mattered.

Everything was going to be okay.

* * *

**Sure, it's going to be okay, Coulson... sure it is...**

**Warnings: Coulson has a panic attack. Mental health issues.**


End file.
